Issue 1: The Rise of The Specter
by UrbanHymnal
Summary: Mike knew he should have come up with a name before the news channels gave him one. If Harvey ever finds out, he will never hear the end of it. Inspired by a prompt asking for a superhero AU Suits story.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Suits. No copyright infringement is intended.

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><p>Author's Note: Remember how I said I was going to write something that didn't involve sad boys in the snow? Well, here it is. This is, quite possibly, the most ridiculous thing I have ever written. Blame windscryer for asking for an AU where Mike gets to be a little superhero badass. This will not be the fluffy angst-fest that I have written previously. It will be (hopefully) equal parts silly and serious as I try to balance a world of comic book stereotypes with the world of Suits. I have literally no idea how this will be received— this may just be a little too out there for folks.<p>

Thank you, in advance, for reading and, as always, reviews are greatly appreciated.

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><p>Prologue:<p>

The Newspapers Make It Sound A Lot More Glamorous Than It Is

And

Superheroes Don't Get Sick Days

**Masked Vigilante Brings Justice to the Mean Streets**

By Martin Severson

The streets of New York are just a little bit safer this morning thanks to the efforts of a masked figure people are now calling The Specter. Charles Cartwright, a notorious drug dealer linked to a recent rash of cocaine related deaths, was apprehended by the vigilante last night. Cartwright is also wanted for questioning concerning the death of Margret Lyle.

In the past month, The Specter has been sited across the city, seeming to appear out of thin air to stop criminals in their tracks. "He just came out of nowhere. Like a ghost or something and just took out those two guys like it was nothing," commented Richard Workman of Brooklyn. The Specter foiled an attack when Workman was cornered in an alley by two armed men on the way home from work. Both men were treated for minor injuries and are now awaiting sentencing. Workman is certainly not alone in his testimony of the heroic deeds of The Specter. Allison Russo, a veterinarian from Manhattan, was saved from a robbery in progress at the local clinic she works at. "I know they would have killed me if he hadn't stopped them. He saved my life," Russo said.

Such actions are not without controversy. The Chief of Police has maintained a stance of no tolerance when it comes to the people of New York taking the law into their own hands. Chief Fernandez was unavailable for comment but in a recent briefing told the press that "The Specter should leave the policing to the police."

The Specter has helped police apprehend over 30 criminals since his first sighting little over a month ago.

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><p>Summer colds are <em>brutal<em>. There is just no other word for it. He feels like he has about ten tons of sludge in his head and chest that refuses to go anywhere, no matter how much he coughs, hacks, sneezes, and snorts. Zombie-state doesn't even begin to cover it; he's barely intelligent enough at this point to carry on a conversation with an inanimate object. How the hell is he supposed to make sense of all the labels in front of him? The text swims back and forth in his vision, refusing to come into focus even for two seconds. He gives up, grabs a box at random that according to picture can put a man twice his size into a blissful sleep, and shuffles back towards the pharmacy.

That's when everything goes to hell. He's walking down the cold aisle, trying to balance a basket full of cold meds and tissues in one hand and a fan in the other because, of course, his air conditioning is on the fritz, when his brain finally catches up to the fact that someone is shouting at the back of the store.

"I swear to God, you stupid bitch, open the damn safe or I'm gonna blow your brains out all over the counter!" Over the shelving, he catches a glimpse of a hooded figure (and how is he not about ready to pass out in that thing? Seriously, it's almost a hundred degrees outside.); the gun is not immediately visible, but the bulge in the pocket of his sweatshirt makes it pretty obvious that the guy isn't lying about packing heat. The pharmacist's eyes are huge, filled with tears, and she's shaking, trying to get the combination to work but failing and the guy is obviously getting antsy, eyeing the front of the store every two seconds.

And this is just . . . great. This right here is exactly not what he needs right now. He just wants to go home, chug forty gallons of orange juice, drug himself with enough medicine to knock out an elephant, and sleep this cold off. But no, now he's got Scarface here, waving a gun around like a moron, strung out on who knows what and _holding up the damn line._

He sighs and sets his would be purchases on the floor, muffling a cough into the crook of his elbow. He quietly opens the fan box and wraps the cord around his fist a couple of times, yanking it free from the base of the fan. Crab walking back to the beginning of the aisle, he grabs a pair of sunglasses off the rack and an ugly baseball cap with some horrendous looking fish stitched on it. Not the best disguise, but he's worked with less. Improvisation, he has learned, is the key to dealing with these sorts of situations.

The junkie is getting louder in the back; it sounds like the pharmacist has finally gotten the safe open and is shoving narcotics by the fistful into a bag. At least everyone is cooperating. The last thing they need is someone to act the hero or something.

He looks over his options and picks the most direct route from the pharmacy to the front door. The robber has obviously cased this place out, choosing to come in at just the right time with the fewest customers and employees—hell, he's probably held the store up before. It's not like they really bother offering security worth a damn in these places and trying to track the guy after he gets away? Forget it. It's like trying to find a particular roach in an apartment building filled with them. He hunkers down next to the end cap and waits.

He hears the hurried thud of the moron's boots slapping down on the thin carpet, the bag of pill bottles rattling madly, making him easy to track. They never said drug addicts were smart (he can definitely speak from experience), but this guy is up there on the moron scale. Just as the noise reaches the end of the aisle, he steps out and straightens. His cord-wrapped fist connects with the guy's face, jaw giving with a bone crunching sound. _Shit_. He meant to pull that better. Stupid cold has got his entire balance thrown off. The guy goes down hard, gun skittering across the floor, pill bottles dumping out and spinning.

He unravels the cord from around his fist, flexing his fingers to get some feeling back in them, before rolling the would-be robber over onto his side. He ties the now groaning man's hands together behind his back with the cord and then steps over him. Wrapping the edge of his t-shirt around his hand, he picks up the butt of the handgun, walks towards the pharmacy, and lays the gun down on the counter.

"Guy's out like a light at the end of diaper aisle." He doesn't even have to worry about them recognizing his voice later; it's so distorted by the cold he sounds like he smokes twenty packs a day. Not that any of them seem to be in any shape to even register who he is, he quickly realizes.

"Oh my god, he had a gun. Did you see that?" One of the pharmacy techs is hyperventilating behind the counter; the rest of the department is staring at him, bug-eyed and shell shocked.

"Yeah, but he's not an issue now. So, cops are on their way, right?" He coughs hard, his chest aching. He sees stars briefly and sniffs hard, fighting the sudden desire to sneeze all over the counter.

"Shit. Shit. _Shit._" The tech is chanting now and he seems to be the only one capable of speech at the moment.

"Okay, good." He nods and leans over the counter, giving everyone a quick once-over. "No one hurt? Awesome." He offers a half-hearted salute and ducks through the open stock room door, nudging the exit door open with his hip. He ditches the glasses in a bin a block over and tosses the hat to a homeless man another block after that.

It isn't until he's back in his apartment, in a half-sprawl across his couch, smothering his coughs in a sweat drenched shirt, that he realizes he doesn't have any cold medicine and his apartment still feels like a sauna. Grabbing a pillow, he muffles a scream into the feathers before being reduced to a series of painful hacks and sneezes. The pictures on his wall rattle and shake before finally working free from the nails holding them up and fall to the floor with a clatter and a shattering of glass. Ms. Barlow in 4C is pounding on his wall, screaming about keeping it quiet, before the last picture has even hit the ground, as if he somehow meant to destroy half the picture frames in his apartment.

It's just his luck, really.

This is Mike Ross, superhero, and this is his life.


	2. Chapter 1

Thanks to everyone for the reviews and alerts! It's nice to know that people aren't totally thinking "What is wrong with this writer?" And now on to the first chapter. (If you enjoy it or have any questions— and have the time to do so —please drop me a review.)

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><p>Chapter One: Two Weeks Later. . .<p>

_He can feel the beat of his city underneath his feet, a dark pulse that is tainted with a thousand crimes. The reek of lies and murder cling to everything, twisting the air with their slick, black stench. His city is sick and rancid, but he knows somewhere under all that grime, she still shines. He'll clean these streets until she sparkles, until every last no good bastard is behind bars._

Yeah, that sounds pretty good, he thinks. He's no Batman, but that definitely had a good ring to it. Even sounded all gravelly and noir in his head; he can almost taste the Scotch and cigarettes.

He stands on the rooftop of his apartment and looks out across the cityscape, enjoying the twinkling of lights that dot the streets, the loud honking of horns, the smell of exhaust and heated metal that reaches him even up here. It's ten o'clock on a Thursday night and he's making his rounds. Tonight, he's spiraling out towards uptown.

Mike has created a system for his patrols. It's part art, part mathematics; each portion of the city divided and coded according to crime rate. He puts higher priority on certain neighborhoods than others, but he still misses things, still makes mistakes. Last Friday, for example, he was canvasing one of the nastier neighborhoods (color coded red on his map), expecting the usual chaos that always seems to erupt when the weekend rolls around. Turned out, it was quiet as a tomb the entire night, while on the other end of the city, two people were shot and killed in a mugging gone wrong. He tries not to beat himself up over it, but he can't help but think if only. That's one of the things they get wrong in comic books and movies—the hero always shows up just in time to save the day. After a lot of trial and error, Mike has learned one simple, basic truth: he's only one man and he can only be in one place at a time.

He backs away from the ledge, giving himself just enough room to take a run at it, and then surges forward, legs pumping with perfect precision. He kicks off at the last second, gravel scattering under the rubberized soles of his shoes. He propels through the air, hot wind fluttering his clothes and making his eyes water under his mask. The moment where he is caught just floating through the air, where gravity seemingly has no meaning, is probably one the best feelings in the world; it lasts for only a brief time, but he relishes the feeling of just being alive in those moments. He tucks inward and lands on the adjacent rooftop. Rolling up onto his feet, he quickly judges the path he should take before running towards the opposite ledge.

A scream and the shatter of glass reach him just before he launches off the third building in his path. Instead of propelling himself off the ledge, he turns and falls backwards off the building, giving over to the free fall. Two stories down, he catches the metal railing of the fire escape to slow his fall, the thick material on his gloves keeping him from tearing his palms to shreds. Muscles bunching, he pulls himself up just enough to get a foothold on the railing and then kicks off, twisting and catching the fire escape on the adjacent building a floor down. He lets go and lands with a muffled thud on the balls of his feet in the dark alleyway.

Peeking around the corner, he catches sight of a shattered store front window and two men tossing boxes into the back of a waiting vehicle where a third man is sitting in the driver's seat. A woman, the owner of the store Mike assumes, is lying on the ground, not moving. They aren't bothering with a lookout because people have a tendency to duck their heads and not see anything in his neighborhood, so unless a cop just happens to be coming by, these hoodlums have nothing to worry about.

Except for Mike.

He looks up at the streetlight illuminating the area across the street, raises his hand, and _pushes_. The bulb flickers and then it and the glass surrounding it explode, plunging the street into shadows. Mike affords himself a brief moment of mental victory; he had been practicing that for a while now—he is so a Jedi.

"Shit, hurry up, man." The driver leans across the passenger side seat and waves at the other two men. Just as he sits back up, there is flash of light and Mike is _there. _Mike staggers for a beat, a confusing moment where up and down lack meaning and his stomach does an unpleasant flip. He recovers quickly, the driver still taken aback by the sudden appearance of a masked man right next to his car door. Mike quickly capitalizes on the driver's confusion, grabbing the back of his shirt and slamming his face into the steering wheel hard enough to stun him. He grabs the keys out of the steering column and throws them, the arc worthy of a professional football player.

One of the looters drops the box he is holding and turns towards him, knife quickly coming to hand with the practiced ease of someone that uses one often. "What the fuck do you think you are doing? This ain't got nothing to do with you."

"Like hell it doesn't." Mike can feel the hot metal of the car through his pants as he slides across the hood, the engine already starting to ping as it cools. He ducks under a wild swing, catching the looter's arm and twisting his wrist until he is forced to drop the knife. He shoves the looter backwards, channeling just enough _force_ into it to send the guy tumbling into the other one, who is just catching on that maybe he should have been running away while his buddy decided to play at being badass; they go down in a tangle of groaning limbs. After that it is ridiculously simple. He's on them before either can get up, zip ties at the ready. A few seconds later and both of them are tied to the door handles of the car—it'll hold them until the police can arrive.

The driver, finally gathering his bearings, leaps out of the car and takes off down the street, fearfully glancing over his shoulder. Mike stands, sighs, and shakes his head.

"Seriously, dude?" He raises his hand and closes his fist, tugging backwards as if pulling a rope. "Get back here. Now." The driver yelps as his feet are yanked hard out from under him and he is dragged back towards the vehicle.

"Don't kill me, don't kill me. Oh god, please don't kill me. I swear I didn't know what Jeff and Rick were planning. They just told me to drive."

"Yeah, right. And you totally thought they were helping that woman with her groceries. If you are going to lie, at least try to come up with a good one." Mike hauls him over to the street lamp, wraps the still babbling man's arms around it, and ties his hands together; he gives a tug on the bindings to make sure the man isn't going anywhere. Not surprisingly, the idiot is still babbling as if Mike is an axe murderer rather than a Good Samaritan. Granted, he is a Good Samaritan that just kicked the ass of three grown men in roughly under a minute without breaking a sweat (okay, he is sweating but that has more to do with the heat wave and the fact that he is covered head to toe in black clothing), but still what about him has even suggested that he would be the type of person to kill someone? Ignoring the stream of consciousness, Mike kneels next to the woman. A bloody gash runs along her hair line, but a quick check assuages Mike's fears—she is alive. He scoops up her cellphone from where the contents of her purse lie dumped across the pavement.

He rattles off the address of the store to the 911 operator, voice calm, cool, and level, all the while keeping a steady hand on the woman's back. She begins to stir as sirens fill the night air, her eyes going wide at the sight of him leaning over her. By the time the police cars screech to a halt in the middle of the street, he is already gone.

Score one for the good guys.

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><p>It's nearing three in the morning by the time he scales the rear side wall of his apartment building and shoves his window open. He crawls inside to the dark apartment, shedding his mask and gloves as he goes. Stretching, he lets out a soft moan, muscles tensing and then relaxing.<p>

"You are a hard man to track down these days." The lamp next to his couch flicks on, bathing the room in soft yellow light.

Mike whirls around, hands raised in defense. "Son of a—. Trevor, what the hell are you doing in my apartment?"

"Nice way to greet your best friend."

Mike glares hard at him; his end table shakes and rattles, sending a glass tumbling off and bouncing across the floor.

"Okay, okay. Please don't send me to the cornfield. I need a favor." Trevor holds his hands up in a placating gesture, like he is trying to calm a gunman— it's slightly ruined by the smirk on his face.

"No."

"You didn't even give me a chance to say what it is."

"Is it illegal?"

"When you say 'illegal'. . ." Trevor grins, a sly up turn of his lips that always spells trouble.

"No," he growls.

"C'mon, Mike. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important."

"It's always important with you, man. I'm not getting sucked into this with you again. The last time I nearly got arrested!"

"I told you—I didn't know."

"And that's always your excuse." Mike crosses over to his front door and throws it open. "Get out."

"Dude, it's not a big deal. I would just need you to get something for me. In and out. With your skills, it would take like all of two seconds. And you'd get paid for it; I know you could use the money even if you are working at some hotshot law firm now. What's the point of having crazy ass powers if you don't get something out of it? The guy that told me about the job said Hardwick would pay big for this."

"Who the hell is Hardwick? No, ya know what? I don't want to know." Mike's face darkens, his grip tightening on the door. He forces himself to ease up; he doesn't want to have to come up with another excuse for why his door needs replaced. He takes a deep breath, trying to get his temper in check. It always seems to be just below the surface these days when Trevor is around. When he finally is able to continue, his voice is a controlled, angry simmer. "This right here," he gestures between the two of them, "this is the difference between you and me. You always expect something for doing absolutely nothing, always looking for the quick and easy. That's not my life anymore." He sighs and runs a hand across his face, suddenly exhausted. "Just . . . just go, okay?"

"Turned over a new leaf, huh? Don't give me that bullshit. I know you too well to believe that." Trevor casts one last look at him. Mike tries to ignore the desperation in it; it will only get him into more trouble. He shuts the door on his friend and his past, the high from saving the woman earlier now reduced to ash.

Sadly, Trevor's visits always have a way of getting under his skin, digging up things that he isn't proud of (it's painful to admit that there are a lot of things that he'd rather keep buried). There was a time, not all that long ago, where he followed Trevor's lead, no questions asked because he was young and stupid and desperately needed a friend. He's known Trevor basically his whole damn life, which by default makes him his best friend. Trevor is also the only person that knows Mike's secrets—all of them. Which is part of the problem, because the asshole uses that to his advantage. When Mike (and by extension Trevor because he couldn't not tell his best friend) figured out that he was more than just some nerdy, awkward kid with no parents, it suddenly became a game between them. "Dude, do your freaky mind thing and pull Ms. Anderson's chair out from under her" slowly became "Don't be a pussy, Ross; cause a distraction while I steal this shit" and then finally it was "So what if the cops figure out what is going on? You can just 'bamf' yourself away."

So yeah, he has a lot of guilt. He can't help Trevor anymore because the cost is too high, but he still feels like the worst person on the planet for cutting ties with his oldest friend. For someone that is super human, he feels incredibly small and helpless at times.


	3. Chapter 2

Another chapter in the Chronicle of Mike the Superhero. This time we take a step back from the crime fighting at night and exam Mike trying to be an awesome lawyer during the day. As always, reviews are quite welcome.

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><p>Chapter Two<p>

There are a lot of things he doesn't understand about his abilities. As a kid, he'd been too scared of standing out from the pack, of catching the attention of any number of terrifying supposed men-in-black types, of having his already messed up life taking an even darker turn. Without Trevor's devious schemes, he probably would have never used them beyond the night his parents died. Other than his freakish memory, it's easy to play at being normal.

Easy enough until he has mornings like this.

He flops onto his bed shortly after Trevor leaves, fumbling with the alarm clock long enough to set it, and falls asleep within minutes.

_Scared. Dark. Cramped. Can't breathe. Dark shoes. Screaming. Warm, sticky, wet. Light._

And wakes up on a bench in Central Park with weak morning sunlight shining in his face. _Damn._ He hasn't done this since he started working for Harvey, his life finally stable enough that his brain doesn't go on walkabout while he is sleeping in attempt to get away from a thousand things that follow him into his dreams. He can never fully remember what he dreams about, just odd flashes, emotions and images blurring together, though he can hazard a pretty good guess as to what his subconscious is constantly fleeing from. Luckily (or unluckily, he supposes), this happened enough as a teenager that he is always prepared for it.

He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and runs a quick check. No injuries, everything is where it should be, even the money folded down in his sock. Walking to the corner in his socked feet to catch a cab will suck, but not as bad as having to walk across town would have.

He only gets a couple of odd looks as he searches for a taxi; most people are steadfastly avoiding eye contact with him. He is sure he looks crazy; eyes bloodshot, hair sticking up in twelve different directions, clothes wrinkled. Probably not that out of place in the early morning light blanketing the park, but certainly not someone most people want to talk to.

His brain feels befuddled as it always does after one of these episodes, vision slightly distorted and waving randomly, making everything look vaguely like a mirage. He doesn't think a migraine will follow as it often does; if he slept this long after it happened, he can be fairly sure it'll only be a dull, persistent headache. Still, he wants to get home and pop a couple of painkillers with a Red Bull chaser just in case.

The taxi cab driver takes it all in stride when Mike slides into the backseat. She seems used to cab fares that look like they have partied for the past two days straight. She doesn't even blink when he blurrily asks her what time it is. He isn't technically late to work yet, but it'll be a close thing.

He tosses the money at her and runs up the stairs to his apartment, already tugging his dirty t-shirt off as he pushes his front door open. Unfortunately, the door stops short, only allowing for about a foot of wiggle room. In frustration, he bangs his forehead against the door, which ignites the headache that had been slowly simmering at the base of his skull until now. He is definitely not firing on all cylinders because that wasn't just a stupid thing to do, it was goddamn _moronic_. He grunts and takes a deep breath before shoving his way through the tight space.

Once inside, he takes in the damage: his couch is no longer sitting in the middle of the room but is now pressed up against his front door; his kitchen table is overturned; the TV is sitting precariously on his coffee table, the various cords stretched out to their limit. Random odds and ends are stacked up in towers around the room. Opening his bedroom door, he finds much the same: his clothes are thrown around the room and his bed is shoved three feet over.

God, last night must have been a bad one—not only did he move across town in his sleep but he also decided to redecorate his apartment. It's absolutely ridiculous that he can do all this while out cold, but when he's awake the best he can manage is teleporting across a room, which leaves him feeling like he's been turned inside out so he avoids doing it as much as possible, and moving one thing at a time. Forget even trying to do intricate things with his telekinetic abilities—popping a light bulb without destroying the entire lamp took him weeks to master. He has only just started using it on people and even that takes a good deal of focus to not badly hurt them.

By the time he unearths a wrinkle-free suit from the mess of his bedroom, pops three Excedrin, and locates the file (in the freezer of all places) he worked on last night before going on patrol, he is now running about thirty minutes behind schedule. His day hasn't even really started and he is already dreaming about going back to bed.

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><p>He drops everything onto his desk, bag overturning and spilling its contents onto the floor. He rolls his chair away from his desk and kneels, grabbing up pens, papers, highlighters, gum wrappers, a half-melted and then reformed candy bar, an empty can of Red Bull (even he is a little grossed out by his bag's contents at this point) and his now smashed lunch. He sits for a moment, enjoying the way his desk provides a nice shade from the glaring overhead lights. It's tempting to just stay here for a few more minutes, or maybe hide here for the rest of the day. Maybe no one will notice. He might even be able to curl up enough that his shoes don't peek out from the edge of his desk. Invisibility would definitely come in handy right about now.<p>

"You're late."

"Jesus!" His head snaps up and connects with the bottom of his desk. He gingerly brushes his fingers across the back of his head and winces, feeling a small bump already starting to form; he hopes he didn't crack the cheap wood his desk is made of.

"Crap. Sorry, Mike." Rachel bends down and peers at him under the desk. "What are you doing down there?"

"Thinking about moving in. It's roomier than my apartment."

"Hmmm… yeah, definitely quite spacious. And comfortable, too."

"Tell that to my skull."

She crinkles up her nose in sympathy and any other day, Mike would find it cute. Right now, he just wants to be left alone to sulk. He isn't afraid to admit that he was sulking. Grown men can sulk without losing an ounce of manhood-ness, as long as there isn't a whole lot of lip pouting involved. He's pretty sure he's mastered the ratio of sulking to pouting.

"Right, well, let's get you up and moving, soldier. Louis pulled all of the associates into a meeting about ten minutes ago. If you hurry, you can still get in your daily 'all of you are a disgrace to the firm' pep talk."

"Fantastic. My day doesn't really start without it."

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><p>He manages to slide into the conference room, keeping to the back of the pack, just in time to hear the trademark smooth as glass Louis Litt rally-the-troops finish.<p>

"I don't have to tell you that each case we handle should be treated with the same amount of respect. No case, no matter the client, is beneath you, especially since you are at the bottom of the food chain. If I ask you to work on a case, I expect you to work on it until it is finished—no excuses." He grins, all cat with a canary breakfast. "And when I call a meeting, I expect every single goddamn one of you to be on time. Do I make myself clear, Michael?"

Mike looks up from the file in his hands, attention suddenly grabbed by the use of his name. "What? Oh, yeah. Definitely clear, Louis."

A grimace of annoyance flicks across Louis's face before he turns to the rest of the room and dismisses them with orders to start in on the files located in the conference room down the hall. Mike moves to duck out the room, mind already on to the case Harvey has him working on, when he is stopped short by Louis calling his name.

"Mike, just a moment of your time."

He barely suppresses a groan, before fixing a smile on his face and turning to face the older lawyer. He notices that Kyle and several of the other associates are taking a little too long to leave the room, obviously excited to see him get yelled at. There is nothing he can do about it, other than to act as if their presence is beneath his attention and keep his cool. "What can I do for you, Louis?"

"I know that Harvey comes in whenever he feels like and, as a senior partner, he has earned that privilege." He pauses, absolute disdain at war with the smile on his face. "But last time I checked, and if I am wrong please by all means correct me, you are an associate and your time is the firm's time. You don't have a life outside of these walls. Harvey may like to think he can protect you from getting fired, but I can bury you in so much paperwork that you will beg to be let go. I can make your life incredibly difficult."

"Already do," Mike mutters under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing, Louis." Mike swallows hard before continuing. He can do this; he can stand up to Louis. He has super powers, for crying out loud; he could easily throw Louis across the room—okay maybe not the entire length of the room, but still he should not be intimidated by a guy that could double as a cheesy 1960s Batman villain. "Look, I know I was out of line being late today. You're totally right, no excuse for it. And since I don't have an excuse for it and you have made your point and then some, I think we can both agree that being late is a very bad idea and I promise I won't do it again."

"Your tone is not needed."

"No, no tone, Louis. Just trying to speed this conversation along because, you see, I am already running late today, as you noted, and Harvey needs this file before his ten o'clock appointment, and well, like you said the firm really looks down on people being late. So . . . I'm going to go. But great talk!" Mike throws the last over his shoulder, already aware that he is going to pay dearly for the quick exit. He counts it as a victory, even though the speed at which he walks out of the room makes it look like a hasty retreat.

He hustles past his co-workers, edging towards a sprint rather than a walk, but he wasn't lying to Louis about needing to get the file to Harvey. He shoulder checks one of the maintenance workers installing a new light in the hallway, sending him sprawling to the ground. Mike stutters an apology while helping the man to his feet, before picking up the pace. Donna sees him coming down the hall, one eyebrow quirked in an expression that might be annoyance and might be amusement. It's hard to tell with her.

"You're late," she sings at him as he passes.

"I know," he replies in a matching falsetto, the pounding in his head providing a convenient beat.

"He's not in there. He said to tell you to get your crap together and meet him down in the lobby because he doesn't have time for your bumbling puppy act today."

"It's not even nine yet!" He runs his fingers through his short hair, causing it to spike up ridiculously in the front, before slapping the file down on the counter top surrounding Donna's desk. His head is pounding a consistent beat dulled only slightly from the painkillers from earlier; everything seems harder to deal with right now when he can't think straight. He knows it's not Donna's fault, but he just wants to yell at somebody or maybe throw a chair through a window. He grits his teeth and just barely manages to keep from accidentally using his telekinesis to express his annoyance. Donna fixes him with the same expression from earlier which he correctly interprets this time to mean annoyance. She calmly waits for him to take a deep steady breath before commenting on his outburst.

"I told him you were in a meeting with Louis and that he should take it up with him. He just left. Go get your stuff and meet him downstairs. It's not a big deal; he's just in a mood because I won a bet on last night's baseball game. And next time, make sure your phone is on you, so when he is looking for you, I don't have to play interference."

A quick search of his pockets reveals the phone is nowhere to be seen. "Crap, I must have left it on my desk."

"I don't care—just go."

"Right. You're amazing. Usual sacrifice of ten virgins okay?"

"I prefer my men to have experience. And fine jewelry works, too."

"I've heard things about Louis's sexual prowess. Something about being an adequately excellent lover."

She shudders and fends off the image by waving her hands in front of her face. "I don't need to hear about your activities after hours. Go!"

He turns quickly, making it back to his desk in Olympian record setting time. His bag is sitting in his chair, items from earlier tucked safely back inside, phone lying next to his keyboard. Rachel must have taken pity on him and straightened out the disaster zone that was his work area and he makes a brief mental to note to thank her later.

* * *

><p>"You're late." Harvey doesn't bother to look up from typing on his Blackberry, frown etched across his features.<p>

"What? No! Are you sure?" Mike pretends to look at his watch. "Crap, I messed up the little hand and big hand thing again." He just manages to keep the angry tone out of his voice, because _dammit_, he knows that he is running late today and why won't everyone just drop it already?

"Funny. Give me the file." Mike slaps the folder into Harvey's outstretched hand and hovers over his shoulder, pointing to a highlighted passage.

"Mercier insists that he went through the proper channels to inform all the families about the burial grounds being moved to make way for the new stretch of highway." He reaches over Harvey's arm and flips a page. "We even have paper work from the Historical Preserve Commission stating that he had someone come down to the site to inspect the area to ensure everything was being handled appropriately. According to the file, the site was deemed as not being of historical significance so the area could be developed."

"But you found something that says otherwise?"

"The date on the paperwork says April 24th of '09." He taps the signature on the bottom of the page. "The Commission has no records of this Philip Holbrook visiting the site—that day or any other."

"Complete forgery?"

"Holbrook worked for the Commission back then but he left two months later. Add in the fact that our clients are saying they never received documentation about the move. . ."

"Sounds like Mercier greased the wheels to get the paperwork pushed through as quickly as possible." Harvey nods, one corner of his mouth tugged up in a smirk. "Good work, kid."

Mike throws his hands up in victory, feeling as if maybe finally the scales are balancing in his favor. "That's right—saving New York one case at a time."

"Yeah, yeah, Peter Parker. You just saved us all from certain death."

Mike grins sheepishly, enjoying his own personal moment of victory. "Does that make you J. Jonah Jameson in this scenario?"

"It makes me Sir Not- appearing- in- this- film."

"Python—nice." Mike holds his fist out, trying to tempt Harvey with a congratulatory fist bump.

The older man ignores the raised fist and instead steps to the curb just as Ray pulls to a stop. "I know. I'm amazing. Let's go."


	4. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Apologies for the long period of time between this and the previous chapter. The Holidays and the semester conspired against me. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you to everyone that has reviewed or tossed this story in their favorites or alerts. Reviews are appreciated as it gives me some idea of whether or not folks are picking up what I am throwing down, as it were. The bracelet mentioned in the chapter is actually for breast cancer awareness; Windscryer mentioned it in her prompt and, well, I just couldn't resist.

* * *

><p>Donna figures it out in quite possibly the most ridiculous way imaginable. He isn't even out on patrol when she gets her first clue; it's early on a Saturday evening, the sun just starting to set behind the glass and concrete buildings, outlining everything in red and orange. Mike is balancing a pizza box in one hand, three bags of groceries in the other while he walks back to his apartment. His evening is rolling out before him pleasantly: devour pizza, toss back a couple of beers—not too much, gotta be sober for later, watch terrible cheesy comic book movie ordered from Netflix on his computer (he doesn't care if he is actually living the life of a superhero—the movies still amuse him), and then off for a couple of hours of kicking the ass of every criminal he comes across. It's basically the makings of the best Saturday ever. And he doesn't even have any work to worry about for once which makes everything all the sweeter because he totally handed Mercier his ass, outlining all the ways Pearson Hardman can and will destroy his career before the man finally caved and agreed to a hefty settlement.<p>

Just as he passes a club, he hears from the alleyway a very pissed off and familiar voice. He backpedals and peers in between the buildings, finally spotting Donna next to the back door of the club. She's mythology made real, Valkyrie, Fury and avenging angel combined into one terrifying creature, as she stands defiantly in front of a man, placing herself between him and an obviously tipsy woman. One delicate hand is flung out to the side, keeping the woman behind her; the other is jabbing a sharply pointed finger into the man's chest, backing him away with each thrust. Her hair looks like a fiery halo around her face and Mike wonders how this frat boy hasn't been reduced to a pile of ash just from the righteous anger painted across Donna's face.

"So what was your plan here, jackass? Convince her to go back to your place? Or maybe you were just going slip her something and take care of business right here?"

"Bitch, this isn't any of your concern. She definitely wasn't complaining when I asked her if she wanted to go someplace else. So, go on back inside."

"She is my best friend, so you better believe it is my concern. And of course she didn't complain—she can barely stand. So, why don't you worm your way back into whatever slimy hole you crawled out of and leave us the hell alone before I shove my ridiculously expensive stiletto right up your ass?" He has seen her calm, sarcastic, and playful, but he has never before witnessed a truly furious Donna. Mike is suddenly very thankful that he has never been on the receiving end of Donna's full wrath.

Mike sets his groceries and pizza box at the mouth of the alley and fumbles in his back pocket for his mask. He doesn't do the whole Superman, shirt ripping thing (because seriously, Clark Kent is supposed to be reporter and there is no way he can afford to replace all those shirts), but after the drugstore incident, he has pretty much learned to never go anywhere without something to cover his face. Just as he finishes tugging his mask into place, Mike sees the lowlife give a resounding backhand to Donna's face, knocking her to the ground. He steps out of the quickly lengthening shadows and, voice as gravelly and dangerous as he can manage, growls: "I think you should listen to the lady."

The frat boy turns and looks at Mike, sneer firmly in place. Apparently, that is all the opening Donna was looking for; before Mike can take another step to bodily remove the drunken idiot from out of the alley, Donna snatches her shoe off her foot and, with a practiced ease that leaves Mike blinking in terror, slams the high heel first into the guy's crotch and then brings it down on his foot. He crumples to the ground with a groan.

Mike stares at her, stunned. "Oh. Um. Okay."

Donna slips the shoe back on and brushes her hair out of her face, a red mark already starting to turn purple on her cheek. "Thanks for that." She holds a hand out, obviously waiting to be pulled to her feet.

"Oh, right. Sure, no problem." He carefully pulls her up, hand gently ghosting over her arm, inspecting her for injuries. "You okay?"

"Of course." There is a slight tremor to hands that she quickly covers by dusting her skirt off. "So, you're The Ghost?"

"Specter," he sighs.

"Ah, right. Of course. Specter." She looks him up and down, taking in the beaten up Chucks held together with bits of duct tape, the ripped and faded jeans, the worn band t-shirt; her eyes finally come to a rest on the black and pink rubber bracelet decorating his wrist that proudly claims that he does, in fact, love boobies. Her eyebrows shoot up at this and then she smirks. "I would have thought you'd be wearing tights."

"Not really my thing. You kind of caught me on my down time." Frat Boy groans and starts to stand; Mike flings a hand out, forcing the man back down none too gently. Donna kicks the downed man for good measure. "Think you and your friend should maybe go to another club."

"I'm not too worried about him." Donna pulls her friend to her feet, looping an arm around her waist.

"Yeah, you seemed to have that handled. Remind me never to cross you—those shoes look like they would hurt." He grins under his mask, briefly imagining Donna as a spunky sidekick and then quickly revises the thought because Donna would never be anyone's sidekick. She's more Wonder Woman than Batgirl. "Be careful getting home, Donna." He winces as the name slips out without him even thinking. She frowns but before she can ask, he teleports away, fleeing to the shadows on the rooftop of the adjoining building. She stares off into the shadows and then finally tugs her friend forward, muttering about ungrateful friends who only call when they are in trouble and weird, nerd boy superheroes. Watching from a distance, he makes sure she finds a cab and then collects his things before heading home.

* * *

><p>He spends the entire weekend freaking out, absolutely sure that Donna recognized him in the alley. On Monday, he chances a quick glance at her, noting that she is wearing a little bit more makeup than usual to cover the bruise on her face, before he ducks away to his cubicle. She seems fine. Everything is fine. He didn't just expose his secret identity to a (very terrifying) co-worker. Mike allows himself to relax when he doesn't hear the office rumor floating about that he likes to dress up in tights in his spare time. After lunch, he finally risks swinging by her desk to pick up some paperwork.<p>

"I'm sorry, but what is that on your wrist?" Donna is steadfastly staring at the arm he has stretched out to grab a file from off her desk.

"Um. . . it's a bracelet." Mike tugs down on his shirt sleeve, trying to act nonchalant but failing utterly.

"That says 'I love boobies.'" Donna's voice is low, flat, and emotionless. She studies him and in that moment, he sees the little light bulb come on over her head. _Shit._

He swallows hard and starts walking backwards away from her desk, mouth on autopilot. "Technically, it says 'I heart boobies', but yeah, Jenny gave it to me. She's doing this fundraiser for—"

Harvey walks out of his office and glances up from the file in his hand. "Mike, aren't you supposed to be buried under some paperwork?"

Donna spins around in her chair, eyes wide. "Oh, Mike here was just telling me all about how he is a breast man." She's grinning like the Cheshire cat; to Mike it looks distinctly apocalyptic. That toothy grin is the face of doom.

Harvey nods. "Understandable. I'll just make sure that HR is ready for the sexual harassment case."

"That's not what it's—"

"Don't care." Harvey walks past him on the way to Jessica's office, head back in the file once more.

Mike can feel the tips of his ears turning a bright, burning red. "I swear, Donna, that's not why I am wearing it. I would never, ever, say something like that to you, because I respect you and you are a goddess and please do not smite me." He tries to figure out how to slip into his ramble something along the lines of _Please do not tell the media who I am and especially don't tell Harvey because I really like working here but I will retire to the mountains to live as a hermit in order to avoid that level of embarrassment. _

"Puppy, hush. Your little secret is safe with me." She winks at him. "Just tell Jenny that I want one of those bracelets, too. Oh, and you should definitely consider wearing tights."

By this point, he can feel his entire body blushing, from toe tips to hairline, which is just ridiculous, he thinks, because he is a damn superhero that can run into a burning building without breaking a sweat, but an encounter with Donna leaves him stuttering and stammering like a moron. She's like kryptonite. He nods rapidly, promising her one before taking off down the hall to hide his red face in a pile of papers that Louis dumped on his desk this morning in retaliation for his "sass."

Somewhere around hour three, Mike's embarrassment firmly buried under the quagmire of property law, Harvey strides up to his desk and slaps a folder down.

"New pro bono case. Read over it and get back to me."

* * *

><p>Stephen Hardwick is a bad man and dirty as they come. It's so obvious to Mike, so black and white, that this man has made a living off of destroying other people that he finds himself wondering how no one else has noticed; he can't understand how Hardwick still walks around free. Drug trafficking, gun running, money laundering—it's just the tip of the iceberg but nothing seems to stick to this guy. The charges just roll right off of him. As Mike digs through the files, he begins to get a clearer picture; Hardwick has a lot of money built up from slum housing and backroom dirty deals and has more than a few government officials in his back pocket from the sound of it, which just pisses off Mike even more because these people are supposed to be putting scum like Hardwick away, not protecting him.<p>

The worst part is the reason why his name is on a file sitting on Mike's desk right now is because of a case involving rental extortion. Not even a slap on the wrist for Hardwick; it'll probably be settled, quietly, out of court, without so much as a small blurb in the papers or a flash of a camera. But you can't crawl through mud without getting filthy; this poor excuse for a human being has messed up somewhere and Mike is going to find out where.

During the day, he interviews people or tries to anyway. He knocks on a lot of doors and gets blank looks and convenient gaps in memories. The best he manages to get is from their client, Isaiah Worth, who paints an ugly picture of sudden rent hikes and basic maintenance being withheld followed by threats of eviction.

"He knows he is in the wrong. This neighborhood used to be a nice place before he bought up all the property. Everyone in this building knows what he is up to, but none of them will stand up to him. And maybe they keep telling me I am stupid to do this, that I should think of my kids, but I am thinking about them. They deserve to live in an apartment that doesn't have rats in the walls and leaks in the ceiling. And they sure as hell deserve to live in a neighborhood that doesn't have his kind of filth in it."

Mike nods and watches Isaiah's youngest, a toddler no more than three, playing in the next room. "I have to ask, but have you thought about moving?"

He gets a hard glare from the other man. "I know you are smarter than that. Moving isn't so simple; apartments don't just grow on trees in New York. And I need to be close to my job. Plus my wife is already working two jobs to help us make ends meet." He shakes his head. "It takes more money than we have to pull up stakes and move to some place new. The hikes in rent that Hardwick keeps pulling are bad enough on our bank account."

Mike does know all this; he clearly remembers the crappy little apartment that he and his Gram lived in when he was a child with its mildew and old, rusted pipes. It wasn't until his parents' estate was settled and they received the meager life insurance policies from their deaths that they were able to afford a move to a small house in the suburbs. "You said Hardwick is up to something. Do you have any proof? Anything that we can use in court?"

"Other than what I've seen with my own two eyes?" The older man shakes his head. "He's smart. He always has his men do the heavy lifting, so he can deny anything that might get back to him. They are careful, too. It's never outright threats, all subtle stuff. Maybe they happen to run into you while you're running errands and casually mention your family. It all sounds perfectly friendly as long as you don't listen too hard. The only thing I can show is the papers I've kept. I keep records of every call to get a repair done, every bit of money I have given him, every run in with one of his hoods."

"Yeah, I was looking over that. It definitely establishes a timeline and proves that you have consistently paid rent and been a model tenant." Mike riffles through the papers splayed on the kitchen table. "Your wife mentioned on the phone that you called the police about a week ago."

"Didn't have anything to do with us, but yeah, I did. I saw a couple of those men roughing up someone out back in the alley behind the building. Didn't get a good look at the guy, but they sounded angry, like maybe he had something they wanted. The guy was scared, so I called the cops." He shrugs. "Whole lot a good it did. By the time they got here, no one was around." Frowning, he sighs and hangs his head, fingers running through his close-cropped hair; he is a picture of defeat. "You think we got even a chance at stopping this?"

"Mr. Worth, I think we have a very good chance of dealing with this rent issue. As for the rest, let me handle it. Keep your head down, keep your family safe." He gathers his papers and shakes his hand. Just as he moves to leave, Isaiah grabs him by the elbow and stops him.

"I don't want to see you getting hurt. Hardwick isn't afraid to go after people. You follow your own advice, you hear? Don't go getting yourself into any trouble you can't get out of."

"I'm just going to do what I've been taught to do, sir: press until it hurts."

Outside, he fishes his cellphone out of his pocket and dials Trevor's number. "I want to know about this job you were talking about."

"Ha! I knew you couldn't resist." Trevor pauses; Mike can hear him moving from a loud room into somewhere quiet. He thinks he can faintly hear Jenny's voice in the background. "Okay, so I don't know all the details. They wouldn't go spilling it to someone unless they were sure they could deliver."

Mike rubs the bridge of his nose, debating his next move. This may very well be the dumbest thing he has ever done. "Tell them you'll do it. Don't mention me, just convince them you can handle it, and then call me with the details."

"Fine. Give me a couple of days to get in touch with them."

Mike hangs up before he can change his mind. He doesn't bother telling Trevor he has no intention of giving Hardwick what he wants.


End file.
